


Funny Man - OR - The Problem with Multiple Choice

by Erukai



Series: United Comics Universe [3]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Batman References, Character Death, Con Artists, Gen, LGBTQ Character of Color, Musical References, Origin Story, Shakespeare Quotations, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23150164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erukai/pseuds/Erukai
Summary: A series of consequences. Letters from Mom and Dad. A series of failures. A means of escaping certain death. The disease of Late-Stage Capitalism. A new identity. Failing to look cool. Seeing the bright side. Resignation. A fellow fan. A gift of laughter. Theatre Kids. A life saved. A curtain falling. A new act.
Series: United Comics Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664020
Kudos: 1





	Funny Man - OR - The Problem with Multiple Choice

“Intentions” were things that he really had stopped considering some time ago. After all, he was certain that his parents hadn’t _intended_ to be the way they were, nor had he really intended to be a disappointment to them, both.

Well, maybe a little.

He was certain, if he really sat there and thought about things, that he could come up with all of his intentions for every action he had ever done. He could explain to them that he always intended to pay back the money, or that he got in over his head with others, or that he truly did love Jack but had had no way of showing it.

Hell, going even further back, he was certain that he could say that he had always _intended_ to pick up that book on Biochemical Engineering and had only gotten a little carried away with reading that _History of Commedia dell’arte_ cover-to-cover. The ADHD, of course. Couldn’t be helped. It’s a disease, you know.

And who would care that he was lying?

As he lay there bound and gagged and bloodied, he figured he knew who did care. Probably. But while the lies had lasted, weren’t they happy? Weren’t they at peace for once in their wretched lives? No one seems to care when lying happens professionally. And that’s what he was at the end of the day: a consummate professional.

‘Course it’s hard to explain that to your ex-paramour’s mob family.

Especially when that ex-paramour was one of your marks.

Whoops.

_Dear Son,_

_Your actions have broken your mother’s heart. You know how hard we both worked so that you could attend the best school worry-free. Why do you insist on throwing all of our hard work away, now? Could you not have told us, first, before you started this nonsense? You are a brilliant biochemist and you are robbing the world of your talent. Think of all of the good you could do with your skill-set. That now shamefully goes to waste._

_I want to make it clear that neither myself nor your mother support this decision, but we do acknowledge that it is your mistake to make. However, you will no longer receive any financial support from us. This is the final straw. We have emptied out your bank accounts. From here on out, you are on your own. Though it is incidental, this might help make that point clear: your mother and I are moving back to Jamnagar. Perhaps when you are ready to face reality, we can discuss all of this as adults._

_We love you. You have shamed us._

The light hurt him. Not as much as the billy clubs had, mind you, but still. Through half-shut eyes, it burned down into his retinas, causing him to hiss with pain as he was dragged along the floor. How many were there? Six? A Dozen? He honestly couldn’t say. Nor could he precisely place himself, now. It felt odd, so he didn’t think it was likely a regular home, but that could always be the multiple concussions.

Someone grabbed his violently by the hair and brought him up to his knees.

He winced, though when every part of your body aches it starts to dull the whole lot.

Wait...no… No, it still hurts.

He was certain ribs weren’t supposed to bend that way.

Although his vision was tinted pink, he could pick Jack’s morose, puppy-dog face out of any crowd. If his face wasn’t mincemeat right now, he probably would have put more effort into smiling. Jack looked like he was on the verge of tears. Funny, he wondered if Jack even knew what it was like to have every part of you kicked in. Didn’t see _him_ crying about it.

Probably because of the damaged tear ducts, but still.

“Right,” an older voice said. With a little _assistance_ from the big men above him, his head was turned to face the speaker. The family resemblance was undeniable. Patriarch, definitely. “So we’re a deeply religious family, and your actions have shamed yourself before God. You see, I don’t know which is worse: the fact that you stole over a hundred grand from us, or that you broke my poor Jackie’s heart.”

Ah, yes, a speech. Well, at least the man knew how to play to expectations.

“Unfortunately for you, neither sin is really forgivable.”

He knew the gun was coming even before he heard the _click_.

“But even with ‘forgiveness’ off the table, consider this your confession: apologize, _now_ , for what you’ve done, and you’ll only be getting a single bullet.”

He had never intended for things to get this far. After all, he hadn’t been exactly _ignorant_ of who Jack Valestra was when he met him. That was what made him such a brilliant mark, right? He had loads of disposable cash and obviously wouldn’t think that anything shady was, well, out of the ordinary, right? The man was used to being around people who kept secrets, so it had only made sense…

And even before then, it wasn’t like he had intended… 

_This email is to inform you that we will unfortunately be passing on you this production. We hope that you audition for us again._

_Unfortunately, you are just not the right fit for this cast. We will keep your headshot on file for review. Thank you._

_After much deliberation, it has been decided that you will not be joining us in this production of_ The Taming of the Shrew. _We thank you for auditioning with the Broadway Shakespeare Company and hope you have a pleasant day._

_This is not the end of your journey, just another stepping stone to success. Do not give up._

His head must have lulled because now the gun was helping to prop up his chin. God, the man had liver spots, didn’t he? Was that _really_ going to be the last thing he saw? A liver-spotted old fart at the end of a gun?

He was waiting for that part of him that would be overcome with grief and fear to come spilling out of him, probably with a torrent of tears. That was the role, after all, wasn’t it? The con artist finally hoisted ‘pon his own petard? With nowhere left to turn, reduced to a weeping mess because the game, at last, is over?

But where was that now? He had had difficulty getting into a character’s headspace before, sure, but this?

Maybe there were other reasons he wasn’t crying, after all.

“Apologize,” the old man repeated, finger itching against the trigger.

If he was physically able to, he would have been smiling.

“No,” he said. Before the old man could react--probably to shoot him--he pressed on, “You’re just going to kill me anyway, and that would be such a waste. I mean, look at what brought us here, right? I managed to con your son out of a hundred Gs without breaking a sweat. And he wasn’t my first mark. On top of that, I used to be a biochemical engineer. Are you _seriously_ telling me that you can’t use someone like me in your organization?”

The old man sneered and pressed the gun so hard against him that he was certain the barrel would leave an impression.

Well, at least he tried. Couldn’t hope for better than trying.

Except, maybe, succeeding. But, still… 

“Daddy, wait.”

His lungs ached as he could not help but chuckle at hearing Jack say that word in this context. Fire burned in his throat and he let out a slight, wheezing cough. There was probably also some blood. Always added to the dramatic effect.

Jack spoke to his father in hushed tones, though he had gotten pretty good at reading lips in the past year so he didn’t exactly feel lost.

“You can’t watermelon, duckie.”

“He’s as Gouda spray cheese, dad.”

“But he bespoke tart.”

“Fleas…”

Valestra let out a groan. A self-satisfied look started to spread across his ruined face. He sure knew how to pick ‘em. And keep ‘em coming back.

He started to purse his lips into a blown kiss.

The pistol to the side of the head put a prompt end to that.

_Welcome, New Employee, to ACE Chemicals Incorporated. You have been accepted for the position of_ **AT-WILL CHEMICAL PROCESS ENGINEER** _at the agreed-upon salary of_ **$11/hr**. _Please review the Employee Handbook_ (see attached file) _before your induction on_ **MONDAY**. _Do not be late. We are happy to have you as part of the family!_

He nearly jumped out of his skin as the heavy, metal door creaked along the track, no doubt leaving deep grooves into the floor. He yelled out a muffled curse as he juggled the chemicals about, doing his best not to let anything interact with anything else that it shouldn’t.

In a fit of anger, he tore off his gas mask. The bruises had healed nicely and, to everyone’s astonishment, none of the beatings had left any permanent scar. He was looking more like his old self every day.

“I’m at a very _delicate_ point in the process!” he scolded, rattling his chains in the process, “You can’t just come barging in here! You’ll blow us all up.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, real sorry about that,” the other man--Eddie, was it? He really didn’t care to keep track--droned, “Hey, tell me again: which one of us has been in the drug trade longer?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get your point, _Eddie_.”

“...I’m Bartholomew.”

“Really? I thought Bartholomew had a scar on his cheek.”

“I do!”

“... _oh_ , is that what that is? I thought it was some kind of sauce…”

Bartholomew pulled a hand down his “scarred” face, looking for all the world like a man who just wanted to plug another man full of bullets. Although in the grand scope of human emotion, it was a very niche look, amongst mobsters interacting with him it was quite common. Endemic, really.

“Listen, got a job for you, so you’re done with all of that for tonight, got it?”

Bartholomew shoved a bundled-up wad of clothing into his hands, as well as a very thin wallet. He checked the name with vague interest as he spoke.

“What’s the job?”

“Driver. You _can_ drive, right?”

“Guess we’ll find out…” he joked. Bartholomew didn’t look amused. “Motivation?”

“‘Don’t get shot?’” Bartholomew helpfully suggested.

He grumbled though figured it was the best he could hope for. Without a second thought, he began to strip down and don the clothes that had been provided for him, placing the wallet into the pocket of his coveralls while he clipped the security clearance badge to the front.

Jack Napier licked his hand and then slicked back his hair.

“So, what do you think?”

“...what kind of accent is that?”

“Boston.”

“Not any kind of Boston I’ve been to.”

“Well, Jack goes to the places in Boston where you wouldn’t even be allowed in…”

“Whatever you say…”

He tapped the fingers of one hand along the steering wheel while he conducted with the fingers of the other, moving along to the beat of the song which played softly in the otherwise abandoned-looking car.

_I love you for sentimental reasons_

_I hope you do believe me_

_I’ll give you my heart_

Finally, he spotted some movement from the direction of the strip joint. If he had not known otherwise, he would have been prone to assuming that a large blob of grease had been given sentience; the picture on his qPhone confirmed it. Hoot Eckhardt, GCPD.

He smiled as Eckhardt oozed into his sports car, taking only a brief moment to check his wallet again for the ID.

Napier, Jack. Third time. Always a driver.

Jack liked to drive. He liked the feel of the engine, the rumble of it passing from his feet to his heart. The barely-restrained power which had to be fought for--every time Jack was in a car, it was a battle for control, an exchange of wills, a fight for dominance. Cars were wild, but Jack knew how heavy a hand he’d need to tame them.

Jack smiled, retrieving a toothpick from the glove compartment as he put the car in gear. No headlights. Jack didn’t need ‘em. He’d been holed-up for so long that he couldn’t help but develop night-vision. 

_I think of you every morning_

_Dream of you every night_

_Darling, I’m never lonely_

_Whenever you are in sight_

Jack followed Eckhardt for a few blocks, just enough to get a sense of his route, before he turned off and gradually began to build up speed. His fingers itched and his lips curled into an almost-involuntary smile. His eyes flashed wildly as the streetlights zoomed by above. Eckhardt would take the tunnel.

Which meant he’d eventually have to face the blind intersection.

Which he did.

Jack could feel the car’s floor through his shoe.

He waited until the last moment before turning on the headlights.

For only a second, he could see Eckhardt’s confused, bleary-eyed stare as he was blinded and blindsided.

**_CRUNCH_**

_I love you for sentimental reasons_

_I hope you do believe me_

_I’ve given you my heart_

Wheels spun lazily in their broken axles.

Glass crunched underfoot as he dropped out of his own car. The special reinforcement kept him from braining himself against the steering column, but it would probably still be a couple weeks before his arm was fully-healed.

No matter, he could work with one arm tied behind his back.

_Ow_.

He took another step, gingerly avoiding the worst of the glass as Eckhardt wheezed out of his own vehicle. He had followed the staging to the letter: no fatalities, just grievous bodily harm. It had taken a bit of doing and, even now looking at his handiwork, he wasn’t entirely certain if he had succeeded, but he supposed it didn’t matter if Eckhardt didn’t make it through the week: he had survived the crash and that was all that had been asked of him.

Well, and this.

“The Valestras send their regards,” he said through the mask. He had not been specifically instructed to adopt one, but he could not resist playing to the trope. Besides, he already had a bandana handy, so why not put it to good use?

Eckhardt’s hands shook as he reached for an inner pocket.

Eckhardt took two blows to the ribs for that, letting out another wheezing cough. Police sirens weren’t even shrieking yet.

He stooped down and retrieved the item for Eckhardt.

Pistol, standard police issue.

He stared at it for a while. In all of his time, he had never actually held a gun before. There was some sort of...otherworldly quality to it that he could not place his finger upon.

Oh, wait, no. There it was. Just had to put his finger there. Right, silly him.

He looked at Eckhardt, his eyes as steely as Jack’s were wild.

He looped his finger through the trigger-guard and twirled it.

The gun spun out of his hands and clattered fifteen feet away.

“... _shit_.”

Eckhardt was out by the time he got into the van for pick-up and, with the precision of anyone who has gone through so many rehearsals, already had his hands up for the cuffs and his chin held up, ready for the bag.

He was beginning to like the smell of burlap.

TO: supervisor0129@acechem.biz

FROM: chempeng0425@acechem.biz

SUBJECT: Letter of Resignation

Dear Linda,

I am writing to inform you that I will be resigning from my position as Chemical Process Engineer at Ace Chemicals Ltd., effective two weeks from today, March 1st. 

Thank you for the opportunities to grow and learn under your guidance.

Please let me know how I can be of assistance during the transition period. I think you are all brainwashed assholes and hope you die in a fire. **|**

Please let me know how I can be of assistance during the transition period. I think you a **|**

Please let me know how I can be of assistance during the transition period. I wish you and the company the very best moving forward. **|**

He thought to ask about the calibre, but that would have been...embarrassing. Funny that he could still feel that this far into things. He was just curious, after all, whether there was any correlation between the number and...well...he wasn’t entirely sure, really.

The look on Eckhardt’s face came to mind.

The way the gun felt as it flew out of his hand.

Some color came to his cheeks as he scowled.

He closed his eyes and tapped his feet against the ground, reaching shaky fingers into his pocket. He felt the texture of this wallet and did his best to compare it to the others: leather? Something other than cow, though. Alligator, perhaps? His fingers pressed against the bumps until all that remained in his mind was the feel of it.

He hadn’t noticed before how fast his breathing had gotten.

He pressed the revolver against his chest as he fished the ID card out of the wallet.

FLECK, ARTHUR.

He tried Arthur on.

Arthur felt...new. Uncomfortable, even, not yet worn in. He fished around in his memories for any sight of Arthur but could not find any. Was this the first time?

Arthur scrunched up his face. How did he feel? Was he...happy? No. No, Arthur didn’t feel the way Jack did. There was no thrill in this for Arthur. Strange. Or...or was that still too much of _him_?

He closed his eyes and scowled deeper.

It was just a role, really. He was overthinking things like he used to.

God, he had hated improv.

But this was scripted, wasn’t it? Not a particularly heavy script, but the guideline was there. He would just need to hold fast to that, wouldn’t he?

Arthur opened his eyes.

Still no thrill, but he was not so...detached from this as he had felt before. Professional, that was the word. This was his job. Pride? Yes, pride was there. He was _good_ at his job. He might punch the clock like everyone else, but he did not live his life on automatic. He lived with _purpose_. He acted with _purpose_.

Arthur closed his eyes and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Okay...okay… Not so bad.

Arthur checked the time and, seeing how late it was getting, finished inputting the coordinates into the GPS and started the long drive out to the estate. There was no period of adjustment for him, really; after all, this was not Arthur’s first time driving on the left and he was such a cool hand at the wheel that he would dare say that he could give Jack a run for his money.

If Jack didn’t just immediately run him off the road, that is.

Rain was spattering against the windshield as put the car into Neutral and extinguished the lights. Arthur’s eyes flickered for a moment as he considered an umbrella but decided that, since he rather liked the rain, he wouldn’t be too bothered by it. It wouldn’t interfere with his work, anyway.

He picked his derby off of the seat and shut the door behind, taking care to make as little noise as possible as he walked up the drive. Although it was billed as a quaint “cottage,” the estate alone could have filled several low-rent high-rises back home. Arthur was surprised to find a flicker of righteous anger tickling through him at the thought.

And then there was the view! All rolling, verdant hills and roaring ocean. It was the type of locale that would make painters and poets weep.

And it was all for two people.

Arthur allowed himself a small scowl.

The door was unlocked when he got there, though this wasn’t a surprise. The right palms had already been greased long before he got to this continent. He noticed the bowl by the door. Empty.

Just the one, then.

Good.

Imitating art, life provided an affirmation of his suspicions.

“Andrea? Is that you? I swear, you should never grow old. I didn’t even hear the Martin…”

The bright smile faded behind the graying mustache as Karl Beaumont rounded the stairs and saw the figure standing in his doorway. If he had been a younger man, he might have reached the cane in time.

Tears streamed down his face as Karl clutched his bleeding knee.

The cylinder rotated, loading a fresh round into the chamber.

“ _Augh..._ what do you want from me?!”

Arthur’s voice was level and possessed a slight lisp. Event bent at the knees, his eyes were still above Karl’s own.

“The money wasn’t yours, Karl.”

The man’s eyes went wide. Some kind of puddle was already forming on the ground below him.

“B-B-But I already-- _nng_ \--I already paid it back!” he protested.

Arthur did swept the barrel over the area lazily, eyes half-lidded.

“Really.”

Karl gulped.

“P-Please, m-m-more time. I-I-I-”

Arthur cocked back the hammer.

“The Valestras don’t forget, Karl. And they certainly don’t forgive. You took the money, you ran, and now this is the price.”

Something stirred from deep within Arthur and wormed its way out, something not entirely himself but not entirely foreign, either.

“‘If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’”

Tears welled up in Karl’s eyes, though the edges of his mouth fluttered with the slightest of smiles. Rivulets ran down his cheeks and over his lips as he spoke, the words somehow both present and far-off.

“‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.’”

A smile worked its way up from within Arthur and to his lips. Genuine, gentle even. He placed a hand upon Karl’s head which, although the old man initially began to flinch away, proved tender and warm. He wiped Karl’s cheek clean with his thumb. If he were another man, he might have kissed him, then, if only to let him know that all that was gentle and good had not yet left the world.

“Another fan,” Arthur beamed. Something wriggled within his chest before it was dragged away into the darkness. “More’s the pity.”

A new hole exploded between Karl’s eyes, dripping ragged flesh upon the wooden floor.

Arthur produced his handkerchief to mask away the stench. He stepped out from between the puddles and made his way up the stairs to Karl’s bedroom. There, he tore up the floorboards, raining loose plaster down onto the rotting carcass below.

By the time he was driving the car back down, Arthur’s pockets were lined with his employer’s bills. Another car was already making its way up the drive; Arthur dipped the brim of his hat down lower over his eyes, catching only a glimpse of fiery hair as he sped out of sight.

Arthur was gone by the time he reached the docks.

Instead, he was standing staring down at the water. Gripped tightly in his hands was the revolver. The coolness of it against his fingers was completely at odds with how it felt to him: leaden, hot. His breath burned against his lungs and he could already feel the wetness upon his cheeks.

He doubled-over and vomited everything that was in him into the ocean. He heaved and he heaved until there was very little left but water and saliva tinged pink. His fingers shook as they gripped the boards, splinters wedging up into the tips.

As the ship was pulling into harbor, he was muttering to himself.

It was just a role.

It was just a role.

His hands were shaking. With a nervous smile, he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth before he applied the rest of his contour and just a touch more eyeliner. He grimaced in the mirror and then smiled and then frowned and then opened his face as wide and as narrowly as he could, catching every small mistake he had made in his makeup before correcting each one in turn.

He was vaguely aware of the many rolling eyes around him but he paid them little mind.

When everything was at last to his satisfaction, he finally turned to the poster hanging beside his table.

The face of André-Louis Moreau--his own face--smiled back at him triumphantly, the tagline below bold and inescapable.

**HE WAS BORN WITH A GIFT OF LAUGHTER AND A SENSE THAT THE WORLD WAS MAD**

He could not help but preen a little, giving his small ponytail a playful little bounce.

“ _Ahem_ ,” one of his fellow castmates harumphed, clearing their throat loudly behind him. He turned to see the Marquis de la Tour d’Azyr looking at him with humorless eyes. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” he said, rising from his chair as he crossed the greenroom and unhooked his coat, “Don’t tell me this is about the fencing scene again…”

“This is about the fencing scene again.”

He scoffed.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” he whined, fitting his arms through the sleeves, “We’ve rehearsed the scene dozens of times, what’s the matter with it?”

“The matter is that we’ve rehearsed it dozens of times yet you keep adding new flourishes to it!”

“Well, I...It just needs to be... _livened up_ a little, don’t you think? Come on, it’s not that bad, is it? Live in the moment, eh? That’s the magic of _live theatre_ , isn’t it?”

The Marquis sighed heavily.

“I get that this is your first big break and you want to _wow_ the audience and all, but you’re going to get someone hurt!”

“You mean I’m going to get _you_ hurt.”

“You’re going to get me hurt!” the Marquis whined in turn, “I don’t want to get hurt!”

He smiled, hugging the Marquis close; both men kept their chins as far up and apart as possible, lest certain things smudge and smear where they shouldn’t go.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, patting the Marquis on the shoulder, “I’ll only add one tonight, okay? The little twirl I do, you know the one, yeah? It’s a crowd-pleaser!”

“It _does_ look cool…” the Marquis acquiesced.

“See? And you know how to dodge it _so well_ , so there won’t be any harm done, will there?”

The Marquis sighed again, this time much lighter.

“How is it that you always get your way?”

He smiled brightly.

“It’s a gift!”

He looked beyond his castmate at where his phone lay upon the vanity. He had told the Front of House to text him as soon as a certain pair of tickets were picked up from Will Call.

No buzzing yet.

This time, it was the Marquis’ turn to place a reassuring hand upon his shoulder.

“Hey--” was all he managed to get out before the Director burst through the door.

“ _Ahem_ ,” he sputtered, failing to catch his breath, “Um- _wheeze_ -Attention! Every- _wheeze_ -one! Um, there’s been a...a...um…”

His eyes darted from his director to the two uniformed police officers now forcing their way backstage. He summoned up his character voice and put on a worried, yet innocent, smile.

“Is there a problem, officers?” André-Louis asked.

“Sorry, folks!” the officer in charge said, ignoring him and speaking instead to the group at-large, “But the play’s cancelled!”

His left eye twitched and something fell into the soles of his feet but his smile did not falter.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Show’s over,” the officer clarified while her partner was already slapping the cuffs around the director’s wrists. André’s arm shot out, gripping her forcibly by the shoulder. Her eyes made him release her immediately.

“I-I-I don’t understand. You mean we’re not going on tonight? B-B-But it’s Opening Night! And what about the--”

“I mean we’re shutting this whole thing down. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, the theatre, everything.” She clapped her hands together loudly, momentarily disrupting the cascading thoughts rushing through his mind. “Time to pack it up, people! Go home! _Vamanos!_ Let’s go!”

Behind him, a grumble had broken out like a tide but the crowd still followed through with the orders regardless. Instead, he shook in place, his smile having faltered only a fraction. Something wet fell upon his cheek.

“P-Please, officer,” he pleaded, the character completely broken, “I don’t...I...Why are you doing this?”

With her eyes, she sighed and placed a hand limply upon his elbow.

“Your director was using this place to launder money and was probably going to cheat you all out of your paychecks, anyway. We need to shut this whole place down so that we can make sure there wasn’t any other shady shit he was up to, okay? Now, go home, mister. I’m not going to tell you again.”

He weakly made a noise as the director was escorted out of the building and the rest of the cast started to get out of costume, leaving him alone in his desperate grasp at remaining in the world they had all worked so long and so hard to construct.

He laid with his back against the wall as the machinery went about its work. He gazed at it all with a neutral expression behind the mask, his breathing so level that no fog formed upon the glass.

Arthur had been called upon three more times since Karl.

He found himself absentmindedly playing with the revolver they had given him for practice. He’d flick his wrist, popping out the cylinder so that it would spin wildly before, with another flick, he would force it back inside.

_Click, WHRRRRRRR, Click_

_Click, WHRRRRRRR, Click_

He tried to remember the three other names.

Was one of them a “Lucy?” No, that didn’t sound right… “Larry,” maybe? No, Larry had been the guy who paid for his hotel room. Sweet and dumb as a bag of hammers. But pretty decent in the sack, all things considered.

Oh, right, and Lucy had been the girl who paid for the _car_. That’s right.

Did it say something about him that he was now mixing up these names with his old marks? What was up with that?

He tried to but found that he just didn’t have the energy to grimace.

_Click, WHRRRRRRR, Click_

_Click, WHRRRRRRR, Click_

The latch reverberated into place and the door swung open.

He didn’t look away from the opposite wall.

“Hey, Barty.”

“Hey, kid,” Bartholomew grumbled, eyeing the merchandise. “Come on, get up. Got a job for you.”

Unfolding with mechanical precision, he stood up and doffed his mask, placing it aside as he laid the revolver down upon the table. He turned to Bartholomew and held out an open palm.

The gangster shook his head slightly.

“Nah, not this time. Come on. Need to get you topside and cleaned up.”

He stared after Bartholomew, a little flummoxed. He doffed his hood and scratched at his overgrown mane.

“Hurry it up, kid. I think you’re going to like this job…”

The last of the lights on the marquee dimmed into oblivion as he stood upon the bridge, gazing down into the churning water below. Yellow tape now ran the perimeter of the Monarch Theatre. His castmates, the Marquis chief amongst them, had invited him out to drinks; clearly, he had not accepted, and really he had had no desire to.

A wave burbled beneath him invitingly.

His heavy coat embraced him with an oppressive warmth against the night’s chill. There were a few erratic spots of icy rain, as though the weather was also attempting to make up its mind about things.

The last vestiges of makeup ran down his cheeks.

His foot found purchase on one of the bridge’s many Fleur-de-lis.

“Hey!” a voice called from behind him.

In a mass of flailing, gangling limbs, he nearly pitched himself into the river unintentionally. His coat was dislodged halfway and now hung lamely across his torso like a woolen half-cape, his disheveled curls dangling before his nose.

The old woman smiled at him with crinkling eyes.

“That’s you, right?” she asked, pointing over to the poster. The GCPD had not bothered to remove any of them, yet, and now his own smile seemed to taunt him now, forever locked in an eternal jeering sneer.

He sneered back but caught himself and evened out his expression.

“Uh...um...yeah,” he muttered, brushing his hair back. The wind blew it forward again, a halo of untamed curls forming around his head. He was beginning to regret his decision to forego a wig; he was beginning to regret a lot of things.

The old woman nodded deeply, as though she had just had some deep truth about the universe confirmed for her alone. She then turned and, with a couple masterful movements, dislodged the front of the glass case and retrieved the poster. He watched, wide-eyed, as she waddled back up to him.

“Sign it for me, please,” she said, pushing it into his hands so that he couldn’t protest. Hair clung to the side of his face and the weather seemed to settle on a light drizzle before stopping to ponder again. He reached into his half-soaked jacket, already formulating the excuse in his head; the pen in her hand put a stop to whatever he was thinking. With a grimace, he snatched the pen and uncapped it with his teeth, rapidly scribbling out his signature with as much of a flourish as his wounded pride would allow. He thought, briefly, of writing some sort of rude epitaph to go along with it; but the sincerity in her eyes convinced him otherwise.

“Here,” he grumbled, giving her back the poster and the pen. A flash of rain made the ink run down to the bottom, making what was already illegible completely indecipherable.

Still, she seemed satisfied.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, rolling it up and tucking it into her own overcoat, “Now you can go ahead with whatever you were going to do. It’d be a shame, though, to lose that kind of talent.”

“‘Talen-?’ Lady, you don’t even know me!”

“‘Course I do. I’ve seen you at rehearsals. You’re good, and the only one of these amateurs who can actually hold onto an accent.” She rolled her eyes and threw herself into what he recognized as a perfect imitation of Aline de Gavrillac. “‘ _OH, Mon-SewER._ ’”

He stifled a laugh before she elbowed him in the ribs.

“‘Course, you’re also a wildcard. Could never settle on the fight choreography, could you?”

He let out an offended little choking noise.

“It needed to be _livened up_!” he protested, “What’s wrong with a little spontaneity, really?!”

She chuckled, lighting a cigarette as she did so. The wind blew the smoke into his face. Through the haze, he could still see the old woman’s face, though the obfuscation twisted her features from one moment to the next, giving her a cherubic appearance in one instance and that of a devil in another.

“Who...are you?”

“The Patron, obviously,” she smiled, teeth clenched tight around the butt. “Until that idiot got himself caught. Shoulda put you in charge instead, huh?” She chuckled, coughing slightly.

He nodded, grimacing.

“And your...name?”

At this, she blew out a long stream of smoke, her eyes traveling up and down his body. Although it was not a feeling he was very accustomed to, he felt his cheeks flush with a sense of shame. He felt utterly naked before her, something which, as an actor, should not have made him nearly as uncomfortable as he was feeling right now.

“Eh, what the hell,” she finally settled on, snorting loudly, “You’re a good kid.” She extended her hand, which he shook before she even finished speaking. “Divinia Barlowe.”

“‘Barl--’ Wait, as in…’ _Queen_ ’ Barlowe?”

She smiled wide.

“Shout it a little louder, why don’t you. Give the GCPD a leg up this time.”

He half-mumbled an apology, letting go of her hand. Was he supposed to have kissed it? The name was a sobriquet, sure, but weren’t Crime Lords their own form of royalty? What was the protocol, really?

His mind caught up with him a few moments later, reminding him that this was not how he had planned for this evening to unfold.

His cheeks felt flushed again.

“So…” he said lamely, looking for the right words, “ _Why_ then? The theatre, the play, everything? I can’t imagine it was a...very successful venture.”

“It wasn’t,” Queen admitted without the slightest hint of embarrassment, “Mixing business with pleasure. A mistake, sure, and one I shoulda known better than to make, but what’re you gonna do?”

She took a long draught on her cigarette. The two of them leaned against the bridge’s railing, gazing up at the darkened marquis and the grotesques higher up upon the facade. From the outside, the Monarch Theatre’s whole story was easily apparent: a small venue that had converted into a movie theatre when those had become the rage, fallen into obscurity, and had only recently been converted back into what it had been before.

“Oh. ‘Monarch.’ I get it,” he said, chuckling lightly. 

Queen shook her head mirthfully.

“Always loved this part of Gotham. My daddy used to take me to the Double Features here. We’d get in for free ‘cause at the time we owned half of Park Row. Now look at it. ‘Crime Alley.’ _Pfft_. Place sees one little murder and it’s like the whole city forgets what it is.”

Queen let out a deep sigh, tossing her cigarette aside. For the first time, he caught a flash of redness upon her cheeks as she did so.

“Oh, shit,” she mumbled, “Did you want a hit of that? I completely forgot to offer…”

He laughed.

“No, I’m good. Thanks, though, for… well, for everything…”

The two of them continued to stare up at the facade for several minutes. Questions worked their way through his head. “Was any of it real?” “Were you really looking to put on a good show or was it all just a front?” “Did you mean what you said about talent?”

She broke the silence first.

“You know,” she said, “You’ve got a nice ass.”

He sputtered.

“Uh...what?” 

“You could make some money with an ass like that. Flash the eyes, get ‘em in bed, take ‘em for all they’re worth.”

He looked around for a moment to make sure that she could not have been talking to anyone else.

“I...I don’t…”

“It wouldn’t have to mean anything, mind, unless you wanted it to. And you’d never have to see them again. Just cook up a little story about this or that, get ‘em to feel for you, and before you know it you’re onto the next sucker with a few extra grand in your bank account. Hell, if you’re good enough, you wouldn’t even have to do _anything_ , really, just _tease_ ‘em along until they’re right where you want them.”

His was almost certain that he could feel the steam rising off of his cheeks as the rain pattered against them.

“I...really don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

Queen let out a light chuckle.

“It’s like I said: it’d be a waste of talent. This town isn’t exactly a Mecca for the Arts, and I really don’t think they’re ever going to open up my theatre again. So put your talents to use. You made me _believe_ that you were the bastard son of a nobleman in pre-Revolution France; that’s a hell of a lot harder than convincing someone that you’re into them and a little cash-poor at the moment, don’t you think?”

Before he could respond, Queen lit up another cigarette and dug around in her purse for her wallet. He didn’t even want to think of how or where she got the roll of bills that she shoved into his hands.

“Just food for thought, honey. Do what you have to to build some capital, and then make your life whatever you want it to be. Don’t let Gotham kill yet another dream.” She gestured down to the money. “Consider that severance pay.”

With uncommon dexterity, Queen turned on her heel and began walking up the alley, a cloud of cigarette smoke trailing in her wake.

“See you around, kid. Make us proud.”

His own face stared back up at him from the reflective glass; the fact that everything was all in red just made it look to him like the world was burning. “Like two-way mirrors” they had assured him. “No one will recognize you.”

He hadn’t been certain who they could have been referring to. Other than his many marks and everyone within the organization, he couldn’t place a single person who could recognize him; that is, no one that he had any chance of ever seeing again.

Still, it was a nice gesture, he supposed, and the costume did allow him the opportunity to better get into character than any ID card ever had. In fact, it even came with a name: **the Red Hood**.

A little on-the-nose for his own taste, but what did that matter? Obviously, the Red Hood was not a man to mince words.

Though, now that he thought about it, wouldn’t “Red Helmet” be more accurate? No, no. “Red Hood” was better. It felt more natural upon the tongue.

He shook his head, rubbing the last stubborn bits of sleep clinging to his eyes.

“You doing okay, boss?”

For once, he found himself with additional players in his troupe for this particular job. Bartholomew had explained to him that they had recently taken on some new recruits and needed something for them to cut their teeth on. Apparently, this had been the perfect opportunity for that, but it did not really pay for him to have doubts, now did it?

As the man placed a tentative hand upon his shoulder, he reflexively shook it off.

“I’m fine,” he stated with an unexpected amount of finality, a quality to his voice that surprised even him. He brushed out whatever creases had been made in his tuxedo, taking one last breath before he placed the helmet upon his head.

A snug fit, but it would do for the Red Hood’s purposes.

With one quick movement, the Red Hood removed his revolver from an inner holster, spun it about his finger, placed it back into its holster, and checked his watch, right as the van screeched to a halt.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, securing his top button, “No time to lose.”

As two members of his gang held the doors open for him, the Red Hood disembarked from the van, the rest of his gang piling out afterwards. His gaze naturally wandered skyward.

Above, familiar, lighted letters fizzled through ancient wiring and reflected off of his face.

ACE CHEMICALS.

“Looking for the Bat, boss?”

He gave the man a look which he was certain could penetrate through the glass but which, for whatever reason, left him unfazed.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s real.”

“‘Course he is,” another one of his men offered.

“Nah. He’s just a trick the cops came up with to scare us straight, you know?”

“Come on,” he ordered, pressing ahead, “And keep quiet. It’s this way.”

The Red Hood led his gang through the complex gangways and twisting turns of the Ace Chemicals Plant. Because his feet were so certain, he could feel that his movements were giving him a mythical quality amongst his men; after all, how could he possibly _know_ this place so well? He narrowed his eyes and continued on, stopping for a moment at an intersection only to find that the guard that should have been on-duty was not at his post.

He grimaced.

When at last they reached the central office, something crept along the back of his mind as he inputted the code for the door. It worked, and though this development was certainly beneficial to the Red Hood’s aims, the part of him that was _him_ was beginning to squirm.

“Trash the place,” the Red Hood ordered, soldiering on, “Destroy any servers you find. Hard copies, too. Don’t want anything to trace back to us.”

“You got it, boss!”

While his gang eagerly filed into the room and went about their work, he took more cautious, calculated steps into the office, as though at any moment a trap door would open below him and plunge him into darkness. His eyes looked about for the wires, the still-drying paint, the sandbags, the flies, for the man behind the curtain. The cameras above stared back at him from beneath their own domes of impenetrable glass.

His eye twitched and caught upon a security monitor.

“Hold it,” he ordered, causing a subordinate to freeze in mid-motion, his arms holding the crowbar high above his head.

Coolly, the Red Hood walked over to the monitor and checked the feeds. He quickly found the channels corresponding to the cameras above them.

The screen showed a handful of security officers chatting the night away and a pair of supervisors going about their normal duties.

If the man behind him grasped the magnitude of what they were seeing, it didn’t show upon his face. Calmly, the Red Hood removed his pistol and aimed it square at the nearest goon.

“H-H-Hey! Hold it!” the man screamed, throwing up his arms.

_BANG!_

The flag which burst out of the chamber read as much, causing the man to burst into an uneasy sweat as the sound died away and he found himself, miraculously, still alive.

“ _It’s a set-up_ ,” the Red Hood growled.

Another revelation dawned upon him as he let the previous one out into the air where it could pass through the minds of his assembled gang. It was a revelation that chilled his blood even more than the sirens which could now just be heard on the edge of the grounds.

None of the men looked surprised.

And every one of them was carrying a weapon.

“ **GCPD! WE’VE GOT YOU SURROUNDED!** ”

Before he could do anything, one of the men already had their finger upon the intercom switch.

“ _He’s in here!_ ”

If he had had greater sense, he would have dropped the Red Hood helmet aside along with the persona. As it was, as he lunged forward in fury, he took a crowbar to the ribs while a bat caught him along the side of the head. Whatever else the helmet did, it amplified the reverberations passing through it, leaving him greatly disoriented as the rest of his “gang” fell upon him in turn.

He fell to one knee, taking another blow upside the head. He doubled-over, his stomach threatening to emerge as pain shot through him, enough to black him out.

Yet he remained metaphorically standing.

As the next blow came down, his hand gripped some loose papers scattered upon the floor and tossed them upward into his attacker’s face. Wobbling, he dove forward, catching the dazed man about the middle and sending him toppling out of the window to a sickening sound below. He turned to look at his other assailants, sizing them up as they looked at their prey a little more cautiously.

He caught a bullet through the shoulder from behind.

Involuntarily, he let out a wince and a scream as he watched his own blood spray against the opposite wall. He stooped down as the rest of the GCPD opened fire, the other men similarly taking defensive positions. Between volleys, they all moved, some to lunge at him while others began to form a blockade around the exit, preventing his escape.

He threw up his good arm as the chain came down, its momentum causing it to wrap about his forearm; he used this to pull his attacker in close, breaking their nose as he brought it painfully against the front of his helmet.

More bullets flew in, one grazing along his knee and tearing a ragged line across his slacks.

Finding some inner, reckless courage, he charged forward even as the GCPD kept firing, catching his assailants by surprise. One started to rise up from their crouch to counterattack but moved too slowly. He wrapped his arms around the man, forcing him to stand up higher and into a position between himself and the trigger-happy police below.

More blood splattered against the wall before he dropped his human shield aside, looks of horror spreading across his compatriots’ faces. In all of the chaos, his hands had found a crowbar which he now brought against the kneecaps of the nearest would-be assassin. The man let out a howl of pain as he dropped reflexively down and into the waiting fist.

Before he could face the final attacker, he let out a scream of pain, his ears ringing loudly. A bullet had caught him about the temple and, although the helmet fractured but held, the force of the blow had sent the worst reverberations yet through his system. He tasted copper and steaming bile in his mouth as he took a bat to the gut, forcing him to drop the crowbar. Another bullet grazed along his abdomen, cutting a thin red line along its trajectory. The bat beat him about the head, the gut, the legs, the ribs, forcing him further and further down.

The adrenaline that had been coursing through his system began to waver, leaving his legs a jellied mess.

Hot tears began to form in his eyes, already beginning to turn hazy.

Not yet… This wasn’t how it was supposed to… 

And then the gunfire stopped, a complete lack of sound that seemed to shock even his assailant. The man turned toward the window and let out a noise of confusion that soon turned into a wail of terror.

As he turned his own eyes to see, all they managed to capture was an image of a large, menacing shadow passing over the window and his attacker, still screaming, being pulled violently through it by the shape.

There was a clattering noise as he fell face-first to the ground, the sound of an object having fallen from a hidden pocket as its owner was violently pulled through a window with sudden and terrible force.

His fingers brushed up against it and immediately found the trigger.

With what remaining willpower he still possessed, he forced himself first to his knees and then to his feet. He half-hobbled, half-tripped out of the door and back out onto the catwalks, taking the first turn that led away from the entrance and toward the back. There would be a fence there. He’d faced worse than barbed wire tonight, surely. Surely it wouldn’t be that difficult to hop it.

Don’t call me…

Blood dripped down, staining his red shoes. He couldn’t be certain where, exactly, it was coming from. He leaned against the railing for support. It creaked menacingly, but he had expected as much already. I mean, with the way his night was going, why not?

His legs, weighted down by fatigue as they were, carried him to the rear of the plant. The fumes from the chemical vats below further delved the world into watercolor, causing him to trip against the metal grates. The catwalk swayed as he impacted against it and continued to do so as he picked himself up.

Reflexively, he turned to see that same shadow now standing behind him.

He couldn’t be certain, disoriented as he was, but he could almost have sworn that the shadow was a devil with two large horns sticking out of their head. Or were those supposed to be ears?

Whatever it was, it now had a gun aimed at it.

“ **I need you to put that down and come with me.** ”

Well, he couldn’t say that he, even with how wild this night had turned out, he had expected to have a chat with a demon, but at least he had a nice voice. Really fitting and giving off the appropriate atmosphere. Five stars.

He cocked the hammer.

“N-Not…” he began, but his left ankle defied him. His foot slipped out from under him for just a second, causing him to lean against the railing again. In the same moment that it creaked, the shadow-demon had closed another foot between them. He brought the gun up again.

Although he paused, the shadow did not seem to flinch.

“ **Let me get you the help you need. Then you can tell me what your gang has been planning and what exactly went down tonight.** ”

The words hit against his brain like slabs of lead and concrete.

“I...I don’t…” he began, wobbling again before his arms and legs found more strength. “I’m not going down like this…”

His eyes widened as he pulled the trigger, firing four quick shots into the shadow. Although he was certain that his aim had been as good as ever, the bullets seemed to pass right through the thing. He changed tactics, firing two quick ones at the shadow’s feet before he turned and ran as fast as he could manage down the catwalk. The railing screeched as he pushed himself off of it, giving him an added burst of momentum that carried his failing limbs forward.

His breath caught as he felt something catch around his ankles and time slowed to a crawl.

Looking down, he could see the bolas binding his ankles together and sweeping him off of his feet. No longer in contact with the catwalk, they could do nothing to slow him down as his full weight, concentrated in his shoulders, bore down against the railing. It snapped apart, loose, rusted rivets flying away in opposite directions. His body twisted about so that he could see the shadow now getting farther and farther away above him. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could almost make out a hand reaching out to--

The chemicals burned against his skin and the shock of it all stopped his heart.

Inky blackness gave way to a more murky blackness that was far more unpleasant. He did his best to take in a lungful of air but instead felt a burning deep within his chest, as though he had just swallowed a cocktail of highly basic chemicals.

Which, of course, he had.

Inky blackness swallowed him again while a pain seized through his brain, the strings which held him aloft violently tugged about. Somewhere in all of that blackness, something...gray.

His eyes bolted open again for a second.

The rushing current brought his neck against a bit of reinforcement, forcing it into an unnatural angle with a sound that would have made him vomit if he still possessed both the ability to hear and the ability to vomit.

A gray dot against a sea of black, growing at a glacial pace.

When his eyes snapped open again, he found his ability to vomit completely restored. His lungs could not seem to decide upon which he should asphyxiate on, his own vomit or the chemical slurry pouring into his every orifice.

Agony wracked him about. For a moment, he felt completely divorced from the physical and the mental and the spiritual, connected only by what tenuous threads were now being tugged and pulled and yanked and which now tossed him about like illicit lovers in Hell. He was vaguely aware that he was currently dying; rather, he was vaguely aware of the specific death he was suffering at that very moment, which had something to do with his eyes and which was very gruesome, while remaining wholly, _painfully_ aware that he was dying in the grander sense.

Or, rather, that he was _not_ dying at all.

Some part of him, that part of him that could be called a “body,” was experiencing death over and over and it was sending the parts of him that could be called a “mind” and a “soul” to whatever that black place was where he was becoming increasingly more aware of the fact that he was not alone and that that grayness was beginning to swallow all of that black, and yet none of this was taking.

His body bounced about the drainage pipes like a gory pinball. Sinew snapped. Bones broke. Blood vessels boiled and popped. Skin blistered. Insides churned.

Somewhere in all of this mess of a stew of sensations, his cheek stung with the memory of a hand decades removed from his face and the impression the ring had left behind. His arm, broken as it was, felt bruised and pained from a different break it had suffered somewhere in that tangled mess of time he had called a “life.”

And although he was having what could have been loosely described as an “out of body experience,” he was no less able to see himself than he ever had; which was probably for the best, given the current state of affairs.

Sinew mended. Bones reformed. Blood began pumping again. Skin healed. Insides returned to a state of equilibrium. 

And the cycle repeated.

Before he regained consciousness again for the final time, he had started to become aware of the fact that the grayness was not so much a blob of color but the blurry features of a feminine face that had been drawing closer, as though the inky blackness around her was but a shroud and she was now bending down to inspect this new thing that had wandered her way. Or had she wandered his? Whatever the case, she was in desperate need of a stylist, he could tell you that…

His body fell against the iron grate, broke it after decades of rust had thanklessly toiled at the job, and then tumbled down like a ragdoll into the river. He broke the surface of the water with a lot less force than he had been experiencing as of late and his body, having been finally given a reprieve, began the painful process of healing in earnest so that, by the time he woke up, he was in prime condition to scream in terror and begin drowning, fresh oxygen escaping from his undamaged lungs as he vomited up bubbles toward the murky darkness above.

He thrashed about quite a bit before he flopped onto the shore like a fish confused about where it should be at this moment.

And, of course, the first thing he did was vomit.

This was helped considerably when he tossed aside the helmet.

That part of him that had a flair for the dramatic cried out for a soliloquy, for some great reflection on his current situation and all of life’s terrible, unfair, random follies that had led him astray and down this path. O, woe be that star that he had been born under!

He vomited some more.

It was several minutes’ resting before he found the energy to rise above where he lay in the puddle and the sick. Waste clung to him as he raised his arms above the shore and propped his torso up afterwards. Things dripped off of him and his nostrils protested so much abuse.

He caught a glimpse of something in the water. He blinked the water out of his eyes to bring it better in focus and let out a sharp gasp when it suddenly was.

Before, he had been vaguely aware of what too base a substance could do to the human body, of the varying effects it could have on one’s epidermis. Undoubtedly, all of the test subjects had not been submerged for quite as long as he had been.

Tentatively, he brushed his fingers against his cheek--unable to register how the keratin in his fingernails had been transformed--and gently stroked it as though to confirm, through viewing the same motion in the water, that the appearance he beheld was really his own.

He saw his changed appearance reflected in the water.

And he laughed.


End file.
